


World Enough And Time

by impossiblesongs



Series: Post-Library River and Confrontational Twelve [8]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2018-09-25 13:37:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9822935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblesongs/pseuds/impossiblesongs
Summary: Beginnings. (part of the ‘Post-Library River & Confrontational Twelve’ series)





	1. forward

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Not my characters. This has been a disclaimer.  
>  **AN:** Long time no see! This next part of the series will delve into the beginnings of River's return from the Library and how she and the Doctor adjust to life again, which also means how they go about planting roots for their timey-wimey family *cough* especially Blu *cough* 
> 
> The title of the fic is from the book The Time Traveler's Wife.  
> More notes at the end.

**_forward._ **

 

            His coat, the magician’s one, was draped over a weakling branch on a tree that Clara had insisted needed planting. It barely reached past the Doctor’s shoulder and he’s not particularly fond of it but nevertheless he busied himself working around it. Inspecting wire after wire of meticulously synced security data due to be planted deep beneath the planet’s surface.

The codes were intended to map around the property, keeping it safer from the actions of intruding forces or worse, curiosity. The work was tedious but the Doctor found it invigorating being able to move forward on a project. As much could not be said in his moments spent inside the confines of the residence he was slowly, inch by inch, attempting to better protect.

Other than the house sitting smackdab in the middle of the area, all else is bare. The land looked nothing like the images Clara tasked herself to sketch out for him and he’s finding it quite hard to picture it as anything else but what it is at the moment, sat entirely alone. Ghostly.

Having had glimpses of the home himself, it’s hard to picture this land with the one he knows to exist somewhere in the future. Clara talking his ear off about it makes it feel a little less like a dream, less of a blank page. Planting roots and waiting for it to flourish, to grow, that took patience.

It exists, he reminds himself, when that patience begins to wane.

A spark of static interrupts the silent plains around him and the Doctor doesn’t have to glance at his visitor to guess at them. The soft footfalls approach, nearer and nearer.

 “You really need to stop showing up without one of your makers,” he tosses the scolding over his shoulder. A tiny hand grasps at his arm and the face of his granddaughter, Susan, fills his line of vision. She smiles at him adoringly, her orange hair a stark contrast to her fair skin. Freckles everywhere. She’s brought along a saucer with a cup full of tea and she is trying very hard not to spill what remains inside the cup. The Doctor stops his tinkering and holds his hand out, accepting the cup and thanking Susan before taking a sip. The tea is lukewarm at best and there aren’t nearly enough sugars for his liking but all this serves to inform him is that dear Susan has taken it upon herself to prepare this very special cuppa, and so he drinks it to the very last drop.

“You know,” the Doctor says, glancing down at the little lass, “your mum and dad are going to worry over you being there and gone the next.” And his eyes drift back over to the house sitting on Home with his wife tucked safely inside it. He sniffs and looks back at Susan. She’s sat herself down beside him and beams, with not a care in the world on her young shoulders.

The Doctor points a finger at the vortex manipulator strapped, hanging much too large, on her delicate wrist.

“You should also tell your dear old dad, from me specifically, that he needs to take better care of that thing. To better keep it out of your reach, for instance.” A set of disapproving eyebrows seem to delight her especially so he makes them extra cross. Just for her. “I mean what are you now, two?”

“I’m seven, grandfather!” Susan shrieks delightedly. Eyes wide and mirthful, tiny mouth twisting as she cackles joyously. Oh, to be young and have such an unweighted response. He so covets it. “And Daddy doesn’t mind.”

The Doctor merely scoffs at her certainty. “I very highly doubt that, but thank you for the tea, dear.”

He sets the cup down and it clanks against it’s saucer. He knows Susan needn’t travel back with them, as he’s glimpsed this particular set sitting in the cupboards of his home in the future.

Besides, if Blu really wanted his tea set back that insufferable son of his could come on by sometime and retrieve them. He’s more than earned himself a lecture on the responsibilities of childcare. It’s unsettling, the fact that Susan is time travelling at this age. Oh, that conversation could take hours. A good row would do the Doctor wonders, he reckons. 

“Now,” he stands and offers a hand to Susan, pulling her up with him as he does so, “let Gramps set you off.” Susan holds out the wrist attached to the vortex manipulator and the Doctor takes a hold of her wrist, waving his sonic and setting the coordinates back right to the instance from which she came from. “Off you pop.”

Susan’s eyes twinkle with contemplation and he wonders just where she’s learned such a whimsical gesture. “Is Nana not herself yet?” she queries. All the air of astuteness a child simply shouldn't posses.

“Your Gran is perfectly fine, Susan. And safe, she’s,” he swallows, “home.”

The next thing he knows his granddaughter’s arms are attempting to throw themselves around his neck, only she’s a size or two short for the task. He bends his knees to accommodate her and hears her little sigh of contentment once she’s roped her spindly arms around him and hugging tight.

“Promise you’ll visit soon grandad, please oh _please_ say you’ll promise,” she begs with all the insistent desperation of a child, making it impossible to refuse her. 

The Doctor shuts his eyes at her request, purposely ignoring the nattering going on in his head about how he doesn’t do this, doesn’t hide his face anymore, and tells his thoughts to _shove off_. He hugs his granddaughter back, hand cupping the back of her head gently and with great care.

“If time allows me, Susan,” he avows, “you know I’ll do my best,” only to open his eyes again and find his arms empty, the girl now gone and the lonely house on the planet Home all that’s left in his line of sight.


	2. and rewind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It takes all but milliseconds for the Doctor to calculate how vastly unprepared for this moment he is, now that it is in fact a single moment away._ \- fitting in and unseen moment 
> 
> .... the Post-Library River meeting 12 for the first time after getting her out was cut in the previous collection, here you have it; short  & sweet  
> 

**_and rewind._**

****

_“I must warn you that this accident in particular has given him a different face. Are you alright with that?”_

_“But…. But is he alright?”_

_“He’s alive, yes. Would you like to see him?”_

_“Oh, yes. Please yes.”_

 

 

It takes all but milliseconds for the Doctor to calculate how vastly unprepared for this moment he is, now that it is in fact a single moment away.

 

River is a vision of bruises and burns as he looks upon her now, just barely awake and out of the Library. Her hair is a combination of colors, from usual honeyed blonde he’s used to, now favoring a particular twinge of red, strands and strands tangled between the other, but despite these differences she’s solid and real and utterly radiant to look upon. The Doctor watches her, watching him. Her tried eyes widen a fraction, taking him in, they search and question. No doubt she is mapping the new lines of this face, aligning them in contrast against to the chinny boy she’s known so well, the one she’s previously gallivant across all of space and time with.

 

The silence between them swells. It’s further punctuated with all the words stumbling and sticking to the back of the Doctor’s throat, too rough to use upon this moment, so he figures it apt to simply steal hers. They’re known and easy, these words, gentled with familiarity and strengthened because they hold more than one meaning.

 

“Hello, sweetie,” he says.

 

River’s eyes, murky from fatigue, spark with magnetic recognition. The “Hello,” returned to him is offered with equal intimacy, throaty and wholly reminiscent of another hello, bringing forth memories of another time, another face, and the two of them standing beside an old cot with a leaf that hadn’t a word for _pond_.

 

“I,” River’s voice falters and her brow furrows, seemingly grappling to understand just how weak her body truly is at this moment. Her hand seeks outward and the Doctor readily grasps at it, giving it a squeeze of reassurance.

 

The Doctor spies Blu working on some kind of injection device out of his mother’s line of sight and struggles within himself at the urge to stop him. To let River consent to it first, only he knows she’s not in a fully conscious state at the moment and she has various other injuries that need to be dealt with, so he bends forward slightly, face aligning with River’s so she’s looking right at him and nowhere else.

 

“I’m betting you have a slew of questions for me, Professor,” he whispers, mouth slanting upward in what he hopes to be a softer expression than this face has been gifted. “It’ll have to wait for now. Let me take care of you first.”

 

River’s eyelids droop, every bit of her fighting for control only control is fleeting. She wrestles with the idea, pinning him with an agonized sort of look before managing a single nod, and then the light in her eye flickers, hazed. She passes over into a sedated slumber.

 

“She won’t be out for long,” Blu says.

 

“Past you is about to wake up out there,” Harkness says, rejoining the room.

 

The Doctor swallows, steeling himself but not once looking away from his wife. “You know where to go from here?”

 

And Blu responds automatically, “Who exactly do you take me for?”

 

 


	3. the first book i ever loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s new and fat with unmarked pages, encased in sleek black leather binding with a bright blue ribbon wrapped around its middle just waiting to be tugged. She doesn’t remember buying it however the item is familiar enough to scratch at the surface of something. It’s all detail and no answer, remarkable yet different somehow._ \- Post-Library River wakes up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AN:** Chapter title from the book 'The Time Traveller's Wife'. ... And back to our regular scheduled programming, we're moving forward with the story. And there's a Harry Potter reference because, I mean. Why wouldn't there be? Also ;
>
>>   
>  _"She was uploaded into the Library for purposes of upholding timelines so somewhat, to some extent, **she'll be split in halves**. She'll remember you but she’ll forget, too. Her DNA will exhaust itself, acting as a fully operational host one moment and existing as a shade of herself the next. Going and coming back. Being where she needs to be, when she needs to be there."_
>> 
>> \- Fear Will Bring You Home, Chapter 5

**_the first book I ever loved_ **

 

The book at her bedside looks more like a tome than a personal journal. It’s new and fat with unmarked pages, encased in sleek black leather binding with a bright blue ribbon wrapped around its middle just waiting to be tugged. She doesn’t remember buying it however the item is familiar enough to scratch at the surface of something. It’s all detail and no answer, remarkable yet different somehow.

 

She doesn’t touch it. Not at first.

 

Be it from curiosity or muscle memory, the book compels her so. It’s there every morning when she opens her eyes and remains a bulky shadow at her bedside every night.

 

One afternoon, she tugs at the ribbon and it falls away easily, velvety soft between her fingertips. She isn’t tempted to throw it away at first and so River wraps it around her wrist, tying a knot so it stays there. Kept.

 

She takes the black leather journal from its place and pulls it onto her lap. It’s not as heavy as she’d imagined it to be. She hauls it open, skipping from the middle of the book and back to the first page. It’s blank and the whiteness of the page is so stark against her fingertips, against everything, so bright with its emptiness, that River begins noticing most things around her appear grey and dull, too.

 

It’s alarming, but not.

 

River turns back to her bedside and searches inside the drawer there for a pen. Finding one, she runs her free hand over the blank page, preserving its beginning, before letting pen meet on paper.

 

_Diary of River Song_

 

It says.

 

She can’t help but feel that she’s written that before.

 

It matters not, she has things to do. Get up out of bed, go to work, visit her parents for dinner after, and then come back home… _home_ … and…

 

River places the diary back on her bedside. She really does need to get dressed.

 

 

 

 

River walks into the clinic room, folder in hand, grinning.

 

“Doctor Song!” her patient greets, every morning, like clockwork.

 

She’s been treating this particular child every day for as long as she can remember and River can never remember their face.

 

“And how are you doing today, darling?” River questions, enveloping the child in a hug.

 

“I’m quite well,” the faceless child responds, playing with River’s stethoscope until River tugs it up over the top of her head and hands it over to them.

 

“I’ll just see about that,” River says, opening the patient file and taking a seat to conduct the check-up.

 

 

 

 

 

“I picked up some Chinese and wine,” says River upon arriving at her parent’s front door with a handful of bags. Rory takes the bags for her and sets them in the kitchen while Amy hugs her good and tight.

 

“Oh, I missed you,” says her mother. The way Amy says it is always threatening to bring River near tears and she doesn’t know why, she simply hugs her mother back just as fiercely.

 

“It’s been a day, mother,” River eventually responds, her face hidden behind strands and strands of her mother’s bright red hair. Amelia pulls back and tugs River over towards the kitchen where Rory is already setting the table. They eat, they laugh, they drink.

 

It’s all perfect, a little slice of heaven, however the table is set for four. Always four. And River can’t shake the empty seat though she never ever asks why, or rather who?

 

She heads home when the night starts turning darker than it needs to be. It’s times like this she’s so grateful to live right beside her parents. It’s a dream, really. It fills her with such warmth, and such longing. She doesn’t’ know where that comes from.

 

She goes home, takes a bath and tucks right into bed.

 

The journal is at her bedside.

 

Tomorrow, she says. Tomorrow she’ll start the first entry.

 

 

 

 

 

Every day is the same.

 

Every day she wakes up, looks at the journal at her bedside, decides tomorrow is the day, gets dressed, goes to her job as head doctor in the town clinic, treats her one patient, has dinner with her parents, always with four places set, stays to enjoy their company until the light outside gets too dark and River decides it best to head out to her own home, right beside theirs, lest the darkness turns into something dreadful like shadows or something, and finally, finally, drifts safety off to sleep in the comfort of her own bed.

 

River tries not to think too hard on the stark whiteness of the blank pages in the journal, or why it bothers her. She doesn’t miss how the only other colors she identifies in her life are the bright red shade of her mother’s hair, or how the bluest of blues shines out from the ribbon she has tied around her wrist.

 

River Song both loves and loathes how simple her life is. The continuity feels new and like it will slip right through her grasp, which she thinks odd, because why would it? It’s all she’s ever known. Her parents with her, day by day. Her job. Her life. It’s all ordinary and sorted. Nothing to fill a blank page over.

 

 

 

 

 

She’s on her way to pick up some Chinese for her parents when a book, bright as the ribbon on her wrist, catches her eye from behind a shop window. Her legs are moving before she decides otherwise, walking into this shop she’s never even been in before and determined to seek out more on this blue book. The book that’s calling to her as no book ever has.

 

She looks around the shop, a bookstore, one she hadn’t even had the decency to get the name of before waltzing on inside. The book displayed on the shop window is nowhere to be found inside but there are a slew of other countless books stacked in all directions. River begins to look for a shop keeper, knows there has to be one somewhere.

 

“Excuse me,” she calls out to no one in particular, “I’m looking for a book.”

 

“Are you now?” the disembodied voice rasps from nowhere. That’s not normal but neither does it alarm her.

 

“Y-yes,” she confirms. “The blue one at the window. Might you have another copy?”

 

“Oh, that old thing.” The voice says, awfully fond. “I’m afraid not. That one is a rarity,” a pause, “one of a kind. Some would say it’s just a book on a shelf, see, but that’s not true. It was a gift.”

 

“So it’s not a book, then.” She concludes sadly, fearing if it were of the personal sort it would be less likely to be sold away. But then again, why would it be displayed if it weren’t for sale?

 

“It was a gift from a man to his wife, long ago, before she was entirely his wife. Time can be funny like that.”

 

She listens to the voice with rapt attention, completely invested in knowing all about that blue book displayed on the shop window, convinced that she had to get her hands on it. There's something more than simply to want or to have it, but rather a sort of _belonging_.

 

“And so what happens?” River asks.

 

“Can’t tell you that, can I? Spoilers.”

 

The corner of River’s lips curls. “Yes,” and suddenly she understood. “It has to be lived.”

 

 

 

 

 

The blue book sits atop of the black leather journal. It _fits_ there, River decides. She’s quite happy just to have the both of them in such close proximity. They seem to intrinsically belong together, only River’s not yet reached a point where she’s inclined to open the blue book and delve into whatever contents lie inside. This also is not strange to her in the least. 

 

It’s hers now, she knows this. That’s enough.

 

 

 

 

 

The blue gets bluer, brighter.

 

The red of Amy’s hair starts to dull.

 

It hurts to look at them.

 

 

 

 

 

_left me like a book on a shelf_

_didn't even say goodbye_

 

_i’m not really here_

**_you are always here to me_ **

 

She bolts up in her bed, sweaty and full of adrenaline. Full of life. 

 

Demon’s Run to the Library. It’s all there.

 

Colors. They’re there, too.

 

But Amy and Rory. They’re _here_. They shouldn’t be, she knows they shouldn’t be. But they are. They’re right next door. And four places.

 

It’s a particular agony to know that they still set four places, even here. Wherever here is. For him. For their Doctor.

 

_And how could she have gone and forgotten the Doctor?_

 

She picks up her diary, the one filled and lived. The one left behind. She reads and reads from page to page.

 

Morning comes and the sun is a bright, brilliant yellow. Like sunflowers. 

 

 

 

 

 

River concludes that the liveliness of the world around her depends on shades of ignorance. The colors, depending on how often she relives the stories in her blue journal, either grow more vibrant or they begin to dull.

 

And the days are all the same. Exactly the same. Unfortunately, the brighter reality may seem doesn’t necessarily make any of it more real. Not now that she knows.

 

She goes back to the bookstore, the place where it all changed. She looks through the rows and rows of countless bookshelves, shouts out for the disembodied voice she’s heard only the once until her voice is hoarse and is merely met with silence.

 

She tries to stay at home, forego work and her fake job and fake life but that only serves to kick start another day. One where she’s expected to follow through the godforsaken routine. So she goes through her days, compliant but only up to a point. She yells at the child without a face and breaks all of her parent’s crystal. There's an instance where she even sets fire to the bookstore.

 

She rages and cries and reads her diary, driven mad with the knowledge of what is real and whatever this in-between is. Because she won’t forget, refuses to forget. No when it lets her _see_ because seeing is the only way to remember all of her memories, to hold on to what's hers. She _earned_ them. Her life and loves and pains and parents and husband. They may just be stories here, but River Song has always been a woman made of stories.

 

And it seems so simple, then. In the end.

 

River climbs into bed at the end of another ridiculous day. She picks up the blue book full of the words of her past, setting it aside, and heaves the unwritten black leather journal onto her lap, opening it up with her pen at the ready.

 

 _We’re all stories_ , she wrote. Then waits.

 

She gasps at the ink that appears beneath her own script, in printed Gallifreyan, with writing she isn’t yet familiar with but she knows him anyway.

 

 _Gotcha,_ it says.

 

 _This is all a bit Chamber Of Secrets, sweetie_ , she writes back. Just because. _I’m ready to get the hell out of here, all the same._

 

 _Always with the cheek_ , is the response.

 

Oh, and the longing. That's where it was from. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

She wakes up. There is no dullness in color. Her strength is a challenge. Her parents are gone and her husband is there wearing a new face. She had not intended to balk at the sight of him when she rouses, and she'll swear she did not, but she sort of forgets that he's changed. It lasts up until she sees that look in his eye, the one he’s always had when it came to looking at her. The one he's helpless against, all soppy nostalgic idiot-like. Then it all comes back to her, then she remembers.

 

“Sorry I’m late,” she murmurs tiredly. “Traffic was hell.”

 

“That’s my line,” he says, brushing her curls back from her face. It brings a smile to her lips, only she swears the more she looks upon him, she can notice creases and lines that hadn’t been there before. Granted she’s only looked upon this face once.

 

“How long have I been out?” she questions firstly, and the Doctor looks away. That's an answer in itself. “Doctor,” she warns him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt in her palm with ease. She's grateful to see some strength has returned to her at the least.

 

“Three months,” he blurts quietly and with guilt, looking everywhere but at her. 

 

“I’ve,” River’s eyes skim the room, from one side to the other, noticing the bedroom she’s in quite differs from wherever else she'd just woken up from. “Where am I?”

 

“Home, River,” says the Doctor. She can see a question build in his eyes, a hope. “You’re home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> be patient, more pieces of this puzzle will be filled in on the next part


	4. every morning when we wake up we forget all about each other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His every action appears practiced and his manner terse, as if time was meant to run out on him. Despite his finicky nature River’s curiosity merely swells, prompting her to venture into the situation at hand. “I’ve been asleep for three months, you say?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AN:** Chapter title/quote used are from the book 'The Time Traveller's Wife'. ~~Also, turns out getting a job in the real world doesn't exactly do wonders when your hobby is trying to write a steady series.~~ Enjoy!
>
>>   
> _“Maybe I'm dreaming you. Maybe you're dreaming me; maybe we only exist in each other's dreams and every morning when we wake up we forget all about each other.”_ [(x)](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/163277-maybe-i-m-dreaming-you-maybe-you-re-dreaming-me-maybe-we)  
> 

**_every morning when we wake up we forget all about each other_ **

 

“You must be famished,” the Doctor proclaims, rushing himself out of the bedroom to get her everything she could possibly need. A cup of tea is sought out first, which in turn serves to conclusions of needing a couple of biscuits to go along with that, now he’s arguing with himself about scones (Rory’s recipe) and whether he should instant bake or run out to steal some from an earlier time.

 

River merely watches, motionless, as the Doctor’s nervous energy grows, boundless to her eyes. It makes her feel unspeakably tiny and boxed in. His every action appears practiced and his manner terse, as if time was meant to run out on him. Despite his finicky nature River’s curiosity merely swells, prompting her to venture into the situation at hand.

 

“I’ve been asleep for three months, you say?” she inquires.

 

Prodding at issues he so obviously wants to avoid isn’t new, she thinks, noting the tension and how it curls up in his shoulders, making him hunch slightly. The reaction conjures up an instantaneous recognition but however brief it skitters away from her grasp the second it appears.

 

“Please,” she begs of him. Watching and waiting really isn’t going to cut it this time and enough was enough.

 

River’s hands seek outward almost instinctively, wishing to grab hold of him. A solid thing, for she feels sorely lacking; wholly untethered. Only he was too far away, practically at the other side of the room and a part of her, a horridly childish sentiment, screams that she’s trapped and no one but the spaceman is coming for her. A sensible part pacifies that fear and instead she presses her open palm down at the spot beside her on the mattress and hopes it proves somewhat inviting, not just desperate.

 

The Doctor has long stopped his chatter and stares at her palm. Whatever composure he possessed loses its neutrality the longer he stares. As if he could no longer hide the damage, not all by himself.

 

His legs move forward, closing the distance between them only instead of taking up the spot beside River, the Doctor takes his place at the end of the bed where her feet are so snugly covered.

 

“It’s been three months since you’ve left the Library,” he says softly, voice all the gravellier the softer it goes. “Three months since I brought you here, the planet called Home.”

 

The news was a shocker, no doubt. River takes a steadying breath and looks about the room, trying to stick something in the place to her memory and comes up blank.

 

“Rubbish name, the more I breathe on it,” he adds, still not quite looking at her. He smiles, eyes crinkling. He’s bashful, she realizes, all at once. River gets caught up in the expression and feels her hearts lurching at the sight of it.

 

The timeboy she remembers had been a tad bashful around her, too. She imagines this face will certainly contrast parts of the man she first fell in love with, her nostalgic idiot with the bowtie. Though this is exactly the same man differences and similarities do tend to run skin deep. Glimpses of the past will always linger there and River’s grateful to them.

 

“And so I’ve been unconscious this whole time?”

 

“Not exactly,” the Doctor’s blurts. He opens his mouth as if he wants to say more on the subject only before he does, he decides not to.

 

“ _Doctor_ ,” she says this in warning.

 

“You have woken up before,” he chooses to say instead, “but you’ve never managed to fully stay here. Not yet.”

 

River feels herself smile, born more out of a deep discomfort than actual happiness. She imagines it to be a truly grim expression. An attempt to hide at her truer reaction. “But how can that be? You’re saying I’ve been awake, _here_? But then why don’t I remember any of that?”

 

“River,” the Doctor winced, “just take a breath for me.” His hands, for the first time in her waking, seek to initiate contact.

 

The first touch.

 

His fingers are longer, palms wider, and there are calluses she doesn’t remember ever having been there before. The caress is unknown to her, yes, but _this_ she understands nonetheless. Knows it for what it is; a proclamation. River follows it. Pushes herself forward and out from under the covers until she’s as close as she wants to be, resting her head atop his shoulder, falling into the crook of his neck and pressing her body, molding it against his own. Closing her eyes, sighing, she feels his heartbeats thud in his chest. _Comfort_. 

 

His arms hesitate, down at his sides, before he brings them up and around her. Cautiously he hugs her closer to him.

 

“I won’t lie to you, this is all vastly complicated,” he states, the words tickling her hairline, “but one thing at a time. Okay? Can you do that for me? Have patience?”

 

“I can,” she declares, lifting her face to meet his, seeking and holding his gaze. “You out of anyone know I can do that.”

 

“That I do,” the Doctor responds softly, eyes glinting, like they both know a secret the universe isn’t yet privy to. “Listen,” he swallows, “I’m going to need to ring your physician. He’s treated you since we got you out of the Library. Once he’s run a few tests, then we can discuss this all further, alright?”

 

River has no recollection of this person the Doctor is referring to and neither has she missed the joining of the fact that this unknown person was also involved in her rescue.

 

“This doctor you mention,” River utters quietly, pressing her head back onto her husband’s shoulder, “we trust him?”

 

“With our very lives, dear,” the Doctor speaks with an air of conviction. “With everything.”

 


	5. each moment is as slow and transparent as glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Travelling or not, he is not made to journey alone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AN:** Chapter title used is from the book 'The Time Traveller's Wife'.

**_Each moment is as slow and transparent as glass_ **

 

Today marks the eight instance River wakes up, the same as before, with no recollection of doing so since her rescue.

 

He’d been told, of course. Blu had stressed the point and even made him promise and of all the things the Doctor had expected but he hadn’t expected… _this_.

 

This catastrophic, despairing bubble of sorts wherein River would lapse into consciousness with her memory intact or without, lasting barely a full day and then she’d be gone again. Like a flickering light of a candle in a dark room and the Doctor would have to hold his breath in her presence, hold it until he was incapable of doing so. She’d linger, alive in his sight or gathered up in his arms, twined to his heart strings and then he’d breathe and she’d flicker, gone away the next.

 

He could accuse time of stopping on him, here, but no. No. Time had not stopped. It merely hesitated, clung about, taking to hanging its weight around his shoulders, growing older every day, whilst he hovered with bated breath for another miracle, another haunting; her awakening.

 

Blu had instructed him to call the moment she’d come to. That he’d need to take note for the state of her recovery and in truth it always felt somewhat like time the Doctor would much rather spend for himself, time that was stolen. But of course he was being foolish and selfish with such thoughts and so he’d relent. Give the time away to their son and hope that whatever significant moment else was to be his.

 

The timing gnawed at him though. It seemed more than coincidence that Blu’s visits and River’s waking always happened without Clara in presence. Clara herself has noticed this but she’s much too adept to state it aloud, coming to the conclusions the Doctor has arrived to at all on his own if not just specifically due to foreknowledge he has and she does not. 

 

It’s fixed. This, whatever it is. Whatever is or has or will transpire between Blu and Clara has a course and time cannot bend to a meeting that is not meant to happen. Not without consequence, which means Clara’s particular presence on the planet Home is for the Doctor’s benefit.

 

Travelling or not, he is not made to journey alone.

 

“She’s awake,” the Doctor reports into the burner phone Blu had given him.

 

Their son arrives in moments. The Doctor follows after him as they head to the bedroom River is awake and alert in.

 

Blu introduces himself as _Will_.


	6. things my heart used to know, things it yearns to remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His eyes are startlingly blue. This physician her husband has called upon. He’s young. He calls himself Will but doesn’t produce much more than that. His hair appears to be black with a hint of soft curls and he scowls more than she’s sure he realizes, a familiar scowl that she can’t for the life of her place._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AN:** Chapter title used is from the song "Once Upon A December" from Anastasia.

**_Things my heart used to know, things it yearns to remember_ **

 

His eyes are startlingly blue. This physician her husband has called upon. He’s young. He calls himself Will but doesn’t produce much more than that. His hair appears to be black with a hint of soft curls and he scowls more than she’s sure he realizes, a familiar scowl that she can’t for the life of her place. River remains unnaturally quiet as this young man inspects her. He takes her pulse, checks her temperature, tests her sight and hears her heartbeats. He doesn’t seem surprised by them at the least either.

 

“Everything seems to be in order,” he reports, stepping away from her and allowing her some personal space, which she appreciates. “How do you feel as of now?” Will asks, peering at her with what looks to be genuine interest. “Any vague aches or dissociative manners? The gaps in your memory are normal,” he assures, “reality seemingly slipping through your fingers?” It’s a suggestion, she realizes. He’s giving her patterns to latch onto, words to make sense of. She feels a weight of gratitude for him suddenly.

 

She glimpses the Doctor hovering and hesitates. “Actually,” River replies stoutly, sitting up straighter, “I’d quite like to know what exactly has been happening to me. No technicalities or dancing around the situation, I just want the truth.”

 

A smirk works its way onto Will’s face. He appears to be rather smug. “And I, Professor Song, personally believe you’re owed as such,” he says, and waits.

 

River looks to her husband and then back to Will, irritation taking hold the more the room stays silent.

 

“You’ve woken up approximately eight times,” her husband chimes in finally. “This instance included and it’s never been for more than a few hours.”

 

“When you’ve succumbed back into your slumber, it would appear that you hold no recollection of previous conscious episodes,” Will informs.

 

“So I’ve done this eight times already?” River can hardly believe that however she supposes she has little choice but to accept what is being told to her. The Doctor wouldn’t lie about this no matter what such nonsense it sounded.

 

“So far in, yes,” Will confirms. “You are waking in closer intervals every time,” he makes mention, “It took a month between the first time you woke to the second, and between the last time before today, it has been a week and five days. I can only conclude by those signs that you are getting closer to a permanent state of consciousness.”

 

“But why am I not conscious?” River demanded. “Why am I in this state? What’s happened to me that I’m gone so often, and so without recollection?”

 

It flustered her and angered her, this situation, reminding her of a childhood she’d rather not recall wherein she’d lost time and mental faculties so easily and so without control.

 

The thought occurs to her.

 

“Have I asked this all of you before?” It’s numbing. The dread filling up in her stomach, the chill taking its wholehearted hold.

 

“Once or twice,” Will answers her without skipping a beat, eyes unblinking and twinkling with some mischief of a sort, but kind.

 

It calms her.

 

“I’m sorry,” she looks away, wanting to hide away her tears, her fists clenching and unclenching.

 

Unexpectedly, Will’s own hands reach out and grasp both of hers in his own, holding them. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Professor,” the young man replies. His voice is steady and there is no arguing against it.

 

River exhales shakenly and decides she likes him.

 

“Thank you,” she whispers, one hand slipping form his hold and wiping a fallen tear from her eye.

 

She looks up to her husband and finds him looking at Will fondly, an awe in his gaze that only solidifies her quickly decided feelings for this stranger.

 

“What now?” River appeals her inquiry to Will, silently pushing for a good solid answer instead of a flimsy ideal of hope.

 

Will smirks. It’s a soppy, optimistic shade of an expression that takes her back to a face she once knew, a face dearly loved, and River, beside herself, breaks out in a smile. Knowing without reason that somehow it’s going to be fine. It’s all going to be alright. She’s in good hands.

 

She looks up at the Doctor and simply beams. Thankful that he’s found this young man, wherever he found him, because she feels safe between the two of them. Oh, how she ever could have doubted.... 

 

“It’s complicated,” Will responds, confident. They're echoed words the Doctor had given her. “Lucky for you, complicated is my favorite word.”

 

Chuffed, River laughs. “We’re going to get on very well, you and I.”

 

Will peers back at the Doctor, very nearly gloating, and says, “Oh, Professor, you have no idea.”

 

The Doctor arches a brow and scoffs but he doesn’t say a word to the contrary.

 


	7. and a song someone sings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Plain as the future written on his face._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AN:** Chapter title used is from the song "Once Upon A December" from Anastasia.

**_and a song someone sings_ **

 

The Doctor had excused himself to make her another cup of tea, River nodded, eagerly endeared by this Will and watching as he gathered up his things. He was preparing to take leave of them and River’s curiosity of this man was all but sated. She took to asking, “How is it that you know my husband? If you don’t mind me prying, that is.”

 

“I don’t,” Will responded, wry smirk a fixture on his face. “We all have a fellow called Captain Harkness in common, I’m assured.”

 

Ah, so that’s explanation enough. Regardless, River is helpless to the smile that spreads across her face at this news. “So you know our dear Jack?” she exclaimed.

 

“Oh, yes,” Will nodded his head vigorously. It is apparent that he’s just as delighted to tell her of this connection as she is to be listening. “Quite well and for many a year,” Will explained. “In fact, I’ve been close to marrying him countless times in our friendship. He throws a hell of a stag night, as I’m sure you know. Thing is, I’m just much too young for him.”

 

River laughs out right. “There is that whole saying,” and Will looks over to her, waiting for her to continue. “The one about age being just a number, but I get a sense that you’re just a little heartbreaker.”

 

Will shrugs, as if he’s helpless to it. Also, a faint coloring appears high on his cheeks. He takes her teasing for a compliment it seems.

 

“I’ve almost married Jack a handful of times myself,” she confessed this easily. “I met him later in my life, long after I had a trinket of his in my possession. It was a chance meeting. I’d known so much about him at that point. Much like the Doctor’s other companions I had to keep track of them and their timelines,” Will nodded, which River took to say that he knew about that, too. She continued, “Jack didn’t even know I knew the Doctor when we first met but… he’s smart. He caught on eventually and we got on swimmingly. He can be just as incorrigible as me sometimes. I’m positive that’s why the Doctor never put us in the same room together before than.”

 

She laughed, “Jack Harkness has never been anything but a true friend to me and, if I’m honest, just the reaction of a certain husband of mine would have made the nuptials worth it. Of course, don't tell him that.”

 

“But of course,” Will agreed heartily, his smile earnest. “My reasoning is something of a same nature actually. I’d personally love to see the look on my father’s face to the news.”

 

“He doesn’t approve?” River wondered, her eyes narrowing.

 

“Certainly not,” Will replied instantly. “Er, um. Not of Jack anyway,” he felt it best to correct any false insinuations as he could. “See, my father’s a bit of an old codger in his late age so Jack kind of proves a bit much for him. Dad gets irritated easily.”

 

River nodded, understanding immediately what Will was getting at. She knew very well how Jack could be otherworldly for some folk. In her opinion that’s what made him absolutely wonderful but not everyone was made for life on the edge of the fantastical.

 

“I uh, I haven’t take my father’s views into consideration when making choices for myself in a very long time, so…," Will paused. He appeared deep in thought for but mere moments, out of it the next, "But even then it isn’t enough to sway me to marry Jack.” He grinned tightly, “I mean unless I really, really wanted to. The idea of my dad’s face remains a definite bonus though.”

 

They each grinned at each other.

 

“I do hope I remember this,” River admitted sadly. She’d like to remember this young man with his bright eyed mischief and kindly sharp smile.

 

Will faltered, blinking away the possibility with a curt shake of his head. “I believe you will eventually. It’ll come back to you at the right moment, all of it,” he declared certainly.

 

River gazed into those startlingly blue eyes, unblinking and fiercely assured. And that’s when she knows. It’s plain as the future written on his face.

 

“You know it has to,” she predicted, “but you don’t know how or when, or even how long it'll take.”

 

Will bent his head, the snapping sound of his suitcase unfailingly loud in the momentary quiet. “A pleasure as always,” he replied flatly, “Professor.”

 

“Till’ next time,” River responded, the accumulated weight of foreknowledge stuffing itself into every crevice of her life once more.

 

 

 

 

 

River sat on the bed she’d been unknowingly confided to for three months and tried to make peace with the intrusion of the future settling itself out so without consideration in her current present, something she’d seemingly never been able to exist without. She tried not to be angered by such an exhausting route she would, yet again, have to manage. Tried to breathe within the fact that the future was seemingly already written and that there would be no other option than that which she lived through today.

 

She’d already done it. She’d lived it. She’d overcome the burden of time. Laid her life down for it. She simply couldn’t stand the notion that she had to live through it all again, and for what? For this? This alienating existence where she wasn’t even actively participating?

 

“River?”

 

It was the Doctor. His palm was cool as he cupped her cheek, fingertip brushing away the tears that had completely escaped her notice.

 

He looked sad. Agonized. His eyes held nothing but heartfelt apologies.

 

_He knows._

 

She wondered if she’d already let him have it. If she’d raged at him for it yet or if she’d even gone as far as vocally blamed him for it.

 

Her hearts hurt at the idea.

 

 _But he’s done the best he could,_ she reasoned, _and faults are trivial matters, we’ve both had our fair share._

 

“Hello, sweetie,” she mustered.

 

It’s a pitiful half-whispered sort. Shattering not dreams but the reality time has formed around them, and for the first time that she could really recall, quite openly, he broke.

 

His face fell and he crawled onto the bed beside her, his face dry one second and wet the next. The Doctor curled around her, taking up the space beside her, palms clutching at her arms, her sides, her neck. Desperately determined to hold her for as long as she was there.

 

Held motionless with the desire to scream, River pulled at him, too. Claiming the space between them, torturous in all its unjust existence, and vowed _this is ours, this is ours._ It’s the least and the most they deserved.

 

Her mouth opened, the emotions building up inside of her, intent on wailing and sobbing, however her body coiled, rigid in an instant, entirely withholding. The cry falls silent in the universe, River not daring to let the noise bubble up past her lips with a voice but just barely letting it echo in the ghost of a scream. It toppled out and into the Doctor’s shoulder nonetheless. The pressure of it is felt, the exhale of a gasp in pure mourning, and the Doctor pulled her closer. Holding them and housing their universe in his arms and his in hers, suspended just outside their hearts, whilst it’s allowed.

 

Time being theirs for the moment, they each broke beautifully.

 

 

 

 

 

“You’ve lingered,” the Doctor commented softly in the wakings of the following morning, returning to the kitchen once he’d fully assured himself that River slithered away from his grasp, freshly absent of consciousness.

 

“Figured you’d rather not be alone,” Blu explained his presence. “I know I wouldn’t.”

 

The Doctor’s cleared his throat before he replied. “Yes, well, I’m not you.”

 

“Right,” Blu’s tone was slightly derisive, one more out of habit than actual cruelty. “How could I forget? You’d rather play the part of a liar.”

 

He’s all nerve endings, raw and ruined, and so when the Doctor turns to his son he’s devoid of any actual venom but not completely left without feeling. “If this is why you’ve stayed, Blu, to cause a row, I’d really rather you’d go.”

 

The Doctor’s voice cracked and Blu exhaled noisily, nose crinkling in apology.

 

“Alright believe it or not,” Blu defended, “it wasn’t my intention to cause you more... pain.”

 

And they both wince, the sight of the expression most identical.

 

“It’s just too easy with you.” Blu added in explanation, ducking his head almost shamefully and shoving his hands in his pockets. “It’s what we do, we take the piss.”

 

The Doctor straightens, eyeing his son longer than Blu thinks is necessary, and huffed. “Naturally. No actual conversation, nothing of substance, just noise filling banter,” the Doctor’s hearts ached painfully at the thought. “And that’s all there is to us.”

 

The Doctor sniffs, sighing with irritation and raising his palms to cover up his face. He doesn’t especially feel like crying in front of this rather uncongenial-esque son of his who would probably try to save the situation by mocking him rather than express actual sympathy.

 

“It’s not all,” Blu replies uncomfortably.

 

Fantastic. And this was exactly what the Doctor wished to avoid. The pity.

 

“It’s not all,” Blu reiterated more firmly.

 

A hand, heavy and comforting, grasped at the Doctor’s shoulder abruptly. It’s appearance was a shock to his overly isolated musings. Blu drew his father closer, pulling him in for a hug. 

 

“Trust me,” Blu urged on quietly, “I’m the only one of us who actually knows, yeah?”

 

The Doctor, helpless to hide his hollow tears and surprised by the act of actual compassion, merely gripped onto his son tighter, and cried. 


	8. here we go again, back to where we’ve never been

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Planning a ridiculous housewarming party was not something he had expected to throw himself into but one hypothetical afternoon arguing over the logistics with Clara flew right on by._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Chapter title from the song "Here We Go Again" by Alexz Johnson.

**_here we go again, back to where we’ve never been_ **

 

Clara dawdles around the kitchen cupboards, specifically the area around the kitchen sink that had a great big window smackdab in the middle of it. There was a pile of exams she’d brought along with her that covered most of the dining table and needed grading, however she’d readily abandoned them in order to shuffle on over to peek at the Time Lord, whose grunting and muttering was inaudible to her, as he finished up the security system on land. The Tardis was parked there, too, several paces down from her Thief. The Doctor work on some wires in the groundwork before sonicing the frequency and dashing back into his ship, moving it onward and continuing the process, all until he disappeared around the corner of the house. Mad scientist gone madder. Or something of that sort.

 

Clara had spied upon the Doctor working tirelessly on that very security system outside for too long now. The restlessness of the entire situation was getting to him, that and the lack of adventures to occupy himself with. It’s not like he’d jump at the chance to go anywhere anyway. With River being parked upstairs and in such a vulnerable state it’s like he’s completely lost interest in anything other than seeing this whole thing through, which Clara’s quite proud of him for. There is however no denying that rooting himself down in one place has stirred him into a right state. The day to day encouraging him to become a whole other level of fastidious about the things that needed doing, be it inside or out. He’s back and forth with himself, becoming irritatingly particular and snappish one second and then downright sullen and standoffish the next. Clara’s never sure which Doctor she’s going to get.

 

“Lackluster backyards caught your fancy this time of day?”

 

Clara jumps at the bark of his voice, he sounds rough and tired and annoyed. She’s been caught upon in his abrupt appearance, so obviously prying, and whirls around to face him. The Doctor is placing his toolbox on the floor, his eyes knowing and disapproving when they meet hers once he’s upright.

 

“A view is a view,” she replies casually, giving a one-shouldered shrug. “Beauty in everything if you know how to look.”

 

The Doctor cracked a thin smile, teeth bared slightly, welcoming her evasion, and says, “So how goes the grading, teach?”

 

Clara shuts the cupboard she had opened uselessly and wanders back over towards the table, picking up a single exam and grimacing, “Devastating. Grammar and teenagers don’t make for the best combination.”

 

“Truer words,” the Doctor responds, moving quickly and gracefully over towards the sink and filling up a glass of water for himself.

 

“I have a maybe suggestion,” says Clara, peering over at him speculatively. “I know this place isn’t completely security proof yet but you do have friends. People you trust. I was thinking how about throwing a housewarming party?”

 

The Doctor blinked at her with his owlish eyes several times and frowns. “Right. I should just sit River on a chair in the sitting room and let people talk _at_ her rather than _to_ her.” He gulped down his glass and eyed her.

 

Clara fully expects the response considering his temperament lately, but she urges the idea on, “I’m just trying to help.”

 

The Doctor set his glass of water on the island counter and begin to tap his fingers impatiently on the marble surface. His feelings on her suggestion turn out to be of little consequence when up against the cogs of possibility already turning in his head. He vocalizes his interest eventually.

 

“And just who the hell would I invite to my house, Clara?” he says.

 

He sounds so petulant and, for a second, Clara finds the prospect of the Doctor throwing a house party like some hip young person as abnormally ridiculous as it actually is, and so it takes her a second to school her expression lest she erupts in a fit of giggles. She managed to pull herself together and says, “ _Friends_ ,” somewhat patronizingly. “You do have some. Allegedly. God knows how.”

 

She knows he’s warming up to the idea by the sound of footsteps pacing around the island followed by an unsatisfactory huff.

 

“Vastra. Jenny. Strax,” she continues, off the top of her head. “Kate Stewart would probably be royally cross without an invite so I wouldn’t step on her toes if I was you,” but she backtracks, “then again not really the best idea to have the head of an organization like hers knowing exactly where you keep your valuables. Choice is yours.”

 

“Jack Harkness,” the Doctor proposes suddenly, sounding like something’s just clicked into place in his mind and he’s so very put out about it. Clara isn’t familiar with the name so she keeps her mouth shut, expecting him to elaborate. “He’s a friend of the family,” the Doctor offers, recognizing the curious spark in her eyes and leaves it at that.

 

Clara nods happily. “Good. This is a good start,” a smug grin spreads on her face. “Now do you want to sit yourself down and we plan this together as adults or do you want to stand over there and sulk some more?”

 

 

 

 

 

Planning a ridiculous housewarming party was not something he had expected to throw himself into but one hypothetical afternoon arguing over the logistics with Clara flew right on by. Now, suddenly, he found himself standing in River’s favorite bake shop sometime in Paris 1973 early in the day ordering a chocolate cake, a tarte vanilla and, what the hell, sure, add two dozen macarons to that order. Why not?  

 

The invites had been delivered two days prior, in person, at Clara’s iron insistence. Well… perhaps all but one. In his defense, he had been especially dreading that one and so he kept it to himself for now. He would seek Harkness out in his own time.

 

He’s reluctant to admit it aloud but the Doctor finds he’s relived for all the fuss Clara’s placing on the occasion. It was something to do, something to overdo, and doing so with Clara reminded him he that wasn’t entirely alone. It’s something he’d forgotten since getting his wife out from the Library. He’d fallen so deep inside his own promises and the listless loneliness that accompanied missing a single person that he’d completely cast his friend aside when she was standing right there, by his side, all this time. He’s determined to make it up to Clara somehow.

 

 

 

 

 

“I need to find an address,” he announces to Clara, as even he knows it’s _time_.

 

There’s only a day left between them and the party. The _right_ Jack Harkness would be hard to pinpoint on a whim so he’d need extra help to get a version he could work with and the Doctor happened to know just the person who could provide such information.

 

“Right,” Clara replies, chipper as ever. The scissors and countless ribbons she was hanging about the place had practically been glued to her fingertips. “I’ll keep the ship at sea here but do bring dinner home cos I sure as hell am not cooking.”

 

Finding the sight quite amusing it’s with a warm smile that the Doctor tugs on his velvet coat and says, “Whatever you say, teach.”

 

“Something that tastes like chicken!” Clara adds just as the Old Girls’ doors closed behind him.

 

The Doctor wastes no time in fishing out the phone Blu gave him for the sake of speedy contact from his inner pocket. He’s pulled a wire out from the console and connected it to the phone charger, turning his attention towards the monitors and waiting for a direct timeline to show up on the screen. The Doctor pulls a lever forward and feels an immediate thrill at the familiar jolt of the Tardis taking off.

 

Much too soon for him, the Tardis lands. He disconnects the cellular phone and slipped it deftly into his jacket before marching over to the twin doors and pulling them open.

 

The Doctor had landed in an empty office. Blu’s office, if the personalized name plate sat on the desk it is anything to go by. He wandered over and plucked it from the desk, fingertips tracing over his son’s name, his hearts gathering affectionate swells of both awe and pride.

 

The door to the far left of the room bangs open and there he stood. Blu Williams, slightly panting and glowering over at his father.

 

“I thought I’d heard her,” said Blu, shutting the door behind him much gentler than he’d opened it.

 

The Doctor placed Blu’s name plate back on the desk and turned to face his son fully. “I know I should have called before bothering you at work but,” and he shrugged. He really could come up with an excuse only Blu, unnervingly, would see right through a lie, so why bother?

 

“Yeah, that’s out of character,” Blu deadpanned, sticking his hands deep into his pockets. “Anything in particular you came by for?” he prompted, evidently not one to wait for long. “Mum?”

 

“No, no, your mum’s fine,” the Doctor assured. “I could’ve just come for lunch you know,” he pointed out. “Or a hug. You never know with this one,” he pointed at his own face.

 

Blu grinned, all sharp edges. “How very improper of me to insinuate otherwise, bloody hell.”

 

The Doctor huffed, giving an inch or perhaps even more. “Alright, alright,” he conceded. “So I do need your help with something.”

 

“I can act shocked,” Blu offered, moving over to take a seat behind his desk and offering his father one across. “I’ve many gifts.”

 

“Shush, you,” said the Doctor, amused, and sat down. “So listen, I need to find Harkness, one that’s timeline permits him to join the family for an evening. There’s a,” he found himself suddenly embarrassed to say it aloud.

 

For the time gone by spent planning, it hadn’t been much more than a project built up by he and Clara. A fantastical whim he at first indulged for the sake of her and secondly, committing wholeheartedly when he found it drove out his ever lingering listlessness. Wiped it away and filled him with a determination towards something, not greater, but purposeful. Something worth doing because it mattered.

 

His initial dislike for the idea thawed the more he worked for the cause at Clara’s side, her persistence was catching. This was something important, this was something personal. Perhaps that’s why it catches at his throat as he mumbles, “There’s this housewarming party.”

 

Blu’s blue eyes did not widen in surprise or narrow in reflection as to why his father would be attempting such a human-like tradition. Instead Blu simply said, “The housewarming, yes. I’d figured that was soon upon us.”

 

“So you know all about it?” the Doctor lightly accused.

 

His son had the gall to smugly confirm, “Obviously.”

 

“You’re terrible at the whole spoilers’ business, do you know that?” the Doctor stated. “But that’s beside the point. I need Harkness, an available one. Tell me where I can find him.”

 

“I can pass it along for you,” said Blu magnanimously.

 

“Will you?” the Doctor tried not to perk up too much at the offer. It _would_ be one less thing to take care of.

 

“It’s not trouble, I’m seeing him later anyway,” said Blu. At the Doctor’s eyebrow of inquiry Blu’s smirk widened, positively shark-like. _“We_ do lunch.”

 

The Doctor gives his son a roll of his eyes and groans miserably, “Fine, fine. Whatever. Do it. I’ve got to get back.”

 

The Doctor is up and out of his seat, retreating to his Tardis about to close the doors, when Blu calls out, “And Dad.”

 

The Doctor peeks his head back out of the Tardis doors as he answers, “Yep?”

 

“Have fun,” Blu says, so soft and hopeful and kind that the Doctor doesn’t know quite what to say to that.

 

His relationship with Blu consisted of jumbled up missing puzzle pieces made up from instances of now and then, all yet to be a constant, and yet Blu had called him _Dad_ nonetheless. Face first and forthright. It’s another piece to this puzzle, another piece that plainly fits. The Doctor finds he’s coming to be more and more at ease, almost effortlessly responsive, to being called the names a son names his father, and so his own response comes equally as natural, as easy as breathing.

 

“Love you,” and so that’s how he leaves, a tone of softer affections with some well wishes for the future. “I’ll see you soon.”

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a good five hours before people are due to arrive when the doorbell at the house on Home goes off. The Doctor and Clara look at each other curiously before ambling towards the front door and pulling it open. There, on the very doorstep, stood River Song, smiling radiantly, accompanied by the twins who stood at either side of her.

 

“River!” Clara exclaimed, equally surprised but happy as a clam.

 

“Hello, Clara dear,” River pulled Clara into a hug and gave her a kiss on each cheek. The children took this as a sign of sorts and rushed off from their mother’s side, making a beeline straight for the kitchen. “Trust those two, I told them there’d be sweets,” warned River fondly.

 

Clara giggled excitedly, peering a worried eye over at the Doctor, who had yet to react. He was looking at River with such an intensity that tears were glistening at his eyelids.

 

“Why don’t you give us a minute, love,” River suggested.

 

“Of course! I’ll get the twins occupied and such, give you two some, er, yeah.” As Clara scampered, River turned to face her husband. She planted herself a foot away from him and let him process, her face but a calm surety, eyes shining back at him brighter than the stars he loved so much.

 

The Doctor took a moment to swallow back all of the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him and reached out his hand. River took it, allowing him to drag her over and envelop her in his arms. He held her silently, breathing in the scent of her hair and caving under the familiarity of curls pressing against his skin, finally reduced to tears when the realization hit that her arms were holding him securely in return.  

 

River let him cry into her neck, rubbing the palm of her hand up and down his back in reassurance. “There, there. We’re alright, my love.”

 

“How exactly are you here? You’re upstairs, and you’re here. How?”

 

“Did you really think for one moment I’d miss my own housewarming party?” River pursed her lips, pulling back to look into the Doctor’s eyes. The look of her gaze all but declared him a nostalgic idiot but nevertheless she took his face in her hands lovingly and responded, “And don’t you go and act like you’re the only one who has ever hung out with yourself. Well,” she grinned, a mischievous gleam in her eye, "spoilers."


	9. but even closer to you, you seem so very far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Alright, fine. I’ll explain,” River says, her tone long-suffering like he’s nagged at her for days on end and not just brought it up twice in almost a full hour._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Chapter title from the song "Wish That You Were Here" by Florence & the Machine
> 
> Please forgive the mistakes, it's midnight

_**but even closer to you, you seem so very far** _

When the Doctor pulled himself together River dragged her weepy eyed husband over into the kitchen. Surely their twins were behaving well enough for Clara but they did have a dash of mischief between the both of them and that could get out of hand without their mother there to sort them out.

Clara had the pair of them nibbling on some chocolate macaroons that River recognized in an instant. She turned back to gaze at her husband, hushed but surprised, “Oh, you didn’t?” 

“Fresh from Paris, dear,” he answered, somewhat smug. River smiled at her old fella and called out for the twins, “Darlings, where are those manners? Say hello to Daddy will you.”

Jessica hopped off from her place beside Clara at the table and sprinted into her father’s arms, jumping up at the last minute and into his chest for him to catch, producing an _oof_ from the Doctor’s lips at the action. He secured her in his arms before spinning her around, muttering _Jessie, my Jessie_ with a fondness attached to his hearts since he first laid eyes on her. She cackled happily at his efforts. 

Young Art watched this play out while he chewed on his own macaroon without hurry. The Doctor raised a brow at River in inquiry but River’s tranquil smile remained on her face and assured him this was more than alright. “Art,” the Doctor said in greeting nonetheless. Art smiled widely and it looked the very imitation of River’s own, making the Doctor’s hearts lighten all the more and an excitable laugh tumble out of his mouth. 

“Tell me you planned the guest list,” River addressed Clara, walking over to join the other woman and sneak a macaroon for herself. The woman fooled no one. 

Clara chortled, eyes widening comically. “Are you kidding? If it were up to him we’d have exactly one guest,” the teacher shrugged helplessly, “and you’re upstairs, so.”

River laughed, “I have missed you, Clara.”

“And I’ve missed you, Professor,” Clara parroted easily, looking over to the Doctor, happy as a clam.

It’s only when River glances back over at the Doctor and that she finds a very troubled expression on his face and she realizes she’s quite mucked a few things up with that seemingly painless comment. 

 

 

“So how are you here?” the Doctor ventures the subject again as River helps gather plates and utensils, moving them out into the sitting room for the guests to use. An estimated twenty people currently occupied the house on Home. “You pointedly didn’t answer the first time I asked, or more, you deflected,” he scoffed, “With sentiment and the grandiose sort of posturing I’ve only known to exist in one other person.”

“Jealous?” River quips, brushing her shoulder against his rather more than she needs to. It’s distracting. 

The Doctor peers over at his wife, alive and well in their sitting room getting ready for a party, brushing against him like she can’t quite help herself. They could almost be dancing. 

“Alright, fine. I’ll explain,” River says, her tone long-suffering like he’s nagged at her for days on end and not just brought it up twice in almost a full hour. “Well, some of it I can’t explain, but I can make it simple,” River turns towards him and invades most of his personal space, which he doesn’t pull or shy away from. Her mouth fits itself into a grim line and her eyes search his before fleeting, looking away at the small crowd gathered in their sitting room. She breaks the news gently, says, “It’s somewhat fixed, my love.”

The Doctor lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Oh, well that’s… right. Okay.” His smile is perhaps grim but hopeful, too. If a fixed point means his wife and children showing up when he needs them to be there the most then he’s not going to damn the universe for it, not for that. Never for that.

“Somewhat not,” River continues, laughing unexpectedly. It sounds almost forced, like a sob, and it would be, he thinks, as tears look to be brimming in her eyes only her smile is wide and… _relieved_. “There’s more,” she tells him, promises him. “There’s,” she pauses, choosing her words, “endings were ever only beginnings. We understand that now.”

“Do we?” he asks, mystified by this iron certainty behind her statement. 

And then she blinks, at him at them at this. He sees the chastisement on herself as soon as she realizes that he’s still new at this, that this isn’t the Doctor she’s been through with this already. This is him, just at the beginning.

“Trust me,” River urges quietly, laying a hand on his shoulder and moving it upwards to cup at his cheek. Her eyes shine and her smile is without doubt, without reason for any of his doubts to trouble her either. 

The memory of a similar conversation comes unbidden, one with little trust handed and little else given really. It makes his blood boil to think on it now, how stupidly he’d clung to the idea of the unknown with that face and how stupidly he’d hurt her. 

_I like a bad girl me, but trust you? Seriously?_

She’d been silent as stone standing in his Tardis, taking his taunts. Looking back on his previous face, her hearts in his hands always seemed handled so carelessly. He refused to do that again. 

“Always,” he replies to his wife, turning his face and kissing her palm softly. “Completely, you ought to know that by now, Professor Song.”

River beamed at him. “Keep calling me Professor and we may have to find the nearest closet so I can have my way with you, guests be damned.”

“Oh god please don’t talk out loud like that,” Clara squeaked. 

The Doctor and River turned to find Clara hovering beside them at the drinks table staring miserably up at the ceiling. She had been in the middle of pouring herself a cup full of something red one of River’s side of the guests sent in their place. 

River took a step away from her husband and tried to mask her massive grin while the Doctor did not.

“Sorry, dear,” said River, opting to be polite. She wasn’t 200 and childless anymore after all and had to set an example. At the Doctor’s silence River elbowed him. 

“Yes. Apologies.” He responded, not sounding one bit apologetic. 

River sought the Doctor’s hand and dragged him over to the other side of the room and he went willingly. She perched them at the end of the stairs, from there they could see the expanse of the sitting room and everyone in it. 

Jessie had flocked to Jack Harkness like a moth to flame, much like her older brother. Jack was giving her a piggyback ride, her bright fiery hair cascading down the side of his head made for a rather peculiar sight.

Meanwhile Martha Jones, who had arrived with Jack and engaged all of their young Art’s attention, waved them away good naturedly and promised to keep him company. The boy had been far too flustered and shy to say anything, but he hadn’t left Martha’s side since she’d arrived and Martha hadn’t minded. The woman had also caught Clara’s eye, as she wandered over momentarily. The two women’s body language appeared relaxed and they talked like they knew each other for years rather than just met tonight. 

“If we had more of these, your friends would meet more people like them and then they’d realize that they all have more in common than anyone in the universe,” River spoke quietly, dropping a kiss to his cheek. “They’re all the best of the best.”

“Not quite,” the Doctor corrected, gazing at River with eyes bright and heavy with emotion. Emotion that stuck to the back of his throat. He cleared it before speaking, “What did you mean when you told Clara you missed her?”

“Doctor,” River warned. She sounded more than slightly exasperated at his insistence. She never liked being caught upon. 

“What happens to Clara, River? You know, I know you know. I know that look, tell me. Tell me what happens to Clara.”

“Do I have to kiss you to bloody shut you up?!” she snapped hastily. 

“Has any other way ever really worked?” he responded flatly. 

River laughed then. Unexpectedly, joyously. She placed her hands to his cheeks and drew him in for a kiss. Soft and lingering, and sad. 

“Clara is here,” she said, her eyes closed. She made her voice sound like a reminder, tethering him and his resolve, both which he found so desperately waning in the time that had gone by to now. So he too closes his eyes and listens, clings to her words like they’re the thing that’s going to save him. 

“Be here,” she tells him, pressing her forehead against his. “Live. That’s all you need to do, my love. Take every day as the gift that it is and hold it close, be selfish with hit. Try not to think of the future. And I know that’s a challenge for you, I know that’s like telling you not to feel time or breathe or sodding _think,_ but for once embrace the ache. Embrace the moment, endure it.” River pulled away slightly, opening her eyes, meeting his readily. “Don’t be scared,” she smiled encouragingly, “be ready.”

“But how will I know I’m ready?” the Doctor asks. 

River shrugs, as if the answer is obvious and sitting right in front of him only he refuses to see it. “Time, my love. Time keeps moving, and we are not merely standing motionless through it. Time will tell.”

“I don’t want to go through it alone,” he says, a confession slipped out before he can swallow it down, but there it is. The ugly truth. 

River runs a palm over his velvet jacket, smoothing it down and asking, “Are you? And you better take a good look around before you go and answer that one because I will smack you so hard Clara will have to fit you upstairs right next to me, I swear to bloody-”

He swoops in and kisses her, if only to stop her nattering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it's not obvious yet, yes I love Martha Jones so much I'll basically fit her into anywhere :D


	10. looped around each other like wool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Doctor exhales shakily, a smile blooming from fondness in the absolute certainty being that River Song, his wife, always knows._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: when you accidentally make your readers wait. foR 12 YEARS. IN AZKABAN. ... ...... oops. So, here I am. & I bring you fluff. 
> 
> Chapter title is a quote from the Tardis herself in a book called _The Doctor: His Lives and Times_ by James Goss and Steve Tribe [(x)](http://everybodyknows-everybodydies.tumblr.com/post/172643546765/but-then-bangzap-we-were-off-again-because-thief)

**_looped around each other like wool_ **

 

The deal is, once the party appears to have its merry end and most all of the guests have seen themselves out, Clara is to hitch a ride back to Earth with Jack and Martha. River insists that she can keep the Doctor company for the weekend. The Doctor, in no proper place to argue otherwise, mutters grumpily about how he isn’t the one who makes the rules when concerning this wibbly-wobbly family of his, making it known that he has some serious reservations to be noted about _that_.

 

The Doctor’s also specifically concerned about the way Clara is rosy-cheeked beneath the outside porch lights and how she’s clinging to a former Time Agent in order to hold herself upright. And then there’s Harkness, who appears far too chummy at this night’s end to be judged entirely sober himself. Martha is perched at Jack’s opposite, arm securely entwined with his.

 

The three humans stand a fair distance away from the front porch, out of earshot, and still, the Doctor can feel more than hear River whisper in his ear, low and reasoning, “She’s a grown woman who is more than capable of taking care of herself.”

 

The Doctor harrumphs indignantly and insists, beneath his breath, through his very put-upon broadening smile, that he has a duty of care.

 

River resists the urge to roll her eyes outright and instead begins to wave away their guests. “You all have a good journey back” she calls aloud to their departing friends. “Do make sure to lay out some painkillers for tomorrow morning, Clara dear. Actually, will one of you take care of that for her please?”

 

“Consider it done,” Jack responds shamelessly with a wink.  

 

Martha, who is not blind and can see the obvious discomfort the Doctor is displaying, tosses a hopeless grin at Jack before volunteering, “I’ll see to it.”

 

In seconds, with a quick double check that everyone is holding on properly, Jack taps at his vortex manipulator and the three companions disappear. River and the Doctor are left alone on their doorstep.

 

“She’ll be fine,” River reassures her husband. “She’ll have an ache in her head come morning that, yes, arguably if you tried and were there to help you’d find some way to cure, but something quite tells me she’s up to the task herself.” A pause. “And you know Jack won’t try anything. He’s just trying to get a rise out of you. You fall for it every time!”

 

The Doctor scoffs, “Of course he sodding won’t. He wouldn’t _dare_. He’d be a dead man.”

 

“He’s _been_ a dead man, honey. A hundred times over,” River reminds. “So have we, as a matter of fact.”

 

The Doctor grimaces, the situation at hand filling his head with parallels that make his stomach turn. “That’s in poor taste, River.”

 

“Rubbish! I’m hilarious and you know it. Come now,” River says encouragingly, maneuvering him so he can follow her back inside the house.

 

The twins are passed out on the sofa and though a precious picture they make, the Doctor finds himself struggling with the urge to wake them up and steal a bit more time with them for himself. As if River can sense this urge, she steers him into the kitchen where there are an impressive number of leftovers for them to see to.

 

River rushes straight to the macaroons and plucks one for herself, taking a teensy bite and then offering it to him. The Doctor nibbles around the sweet at first before stealing it away and shoving the entire thing into his mouth. River shakes her head at his sweet tooth before starting in on the clean-up.

 

“Have you had very many adventures since moving in?” she asks. It’s not much of a question as there is an overly obvious answer that hangs over the both of them and they both know it, too. The Doctor glares at her. River hesitates shortly before coming up and out with it. “You know there are protocols. In the house. Or rather the planet, I should say.”

 

“Oh, I’ve noticed,” the Doctor answers, tossing a box of god knows what into the bin.

 

“Poked around a bit have you?” River breaks out into one of her devious smiles. Plopped around here like a sitting duck must have been driving the Doctor mad, she bets. He’d have little else to do but investigate every crevice of the area. “You needn’t stay put as much as you think,” she insists, eyeing a salad she recognizes to be from Tubloom 6 with distaste and chucking it into the bin.

 

The Doctor studies his wife. Though his thoughts may be easy enough to guess on, River has always held her cards dastardly close when she was in control of them, leaving him only to speculate. Now is no different. She’s cool and unpressured, her movements assured and routine. Even his eyes upon her, attempting to decrypt the whole of the puzzle, isn’t enough to daunt her.

 

“Noticing is one thing surely,” she utters conversationally as if he's actively participating, “but am I right in guessing you haven’t engaged the house?”

 

“Pardon?” 

 

“As I said, this planet has a system; it’s ingrained into the house,” she states. “You must’ve come across it already. It’s quite insistent when it wants to be.”

 

The Doctor’s several conclusions come forth rather quickly. “The greeting, you mean,” he snaps his fingers in recollection. “Yes. Oh, Clara encountered it before I arrived,” he shares, raising his brow at the prospect that’s occurring to him. “Are you saying there’s more of it?”

 

River leans into the island and looks at him pointedly. “I’m saying, that while I’m up there,” she infers to the upstairs bedroom, “you don’t necessarily have to stay down here.”

 

The shock of the sentence appears clearly on the Doctor’s face. “I won’t leave you,” he declares, “I promised.”

 

“I know,” River says calmly as she discards some plates into the sink and moves over to her husband, grasping his hands in her own. “And you won’t,” she assures him. “It's like I told you before, you are not alone here.”

 

He can’t help his eyes trailing towards the walls of the kitchen, up to the roof above them, and pondering. 

 

“What is this place, River? I don’t get a proper read of it, the Tardis is… I don’t know how, or why, but she doesn’t tell me everything. This place, it doesn’t have a beginning. There’s no history. I’ve looked, and I can’t find it. It’s like it appeared out of thin air, existed without a conclusive point of birth.”

 

River peers up at her husband with that damnable smirk on her face, the one full of spoilers. “Not yet, no,” she allows. “But one day. One day you’ll know. It will all come together, as do we. But you don’t have to sit and wait. You have to go and do things, my love. Traveling. It’s the way it is and the way it should be. I’m sure Clara misses it as much as you do.”

 

“And you?” he cups her cheek in his palm, eyes wrestling against the fierce sadness that attaches itself unto his hearts. “Upstairs,” the Doctor swallows, confessing, “I don’t know what is happening to you when you’re not with me and I’m afraid that it’s not something good. How can I leave you when I don’t know if… if you need me?”

 

Her answering smile is pained and her eyes are utterly readable.  “I tell you,” she promises, “Soon, you’ll know.”

 

 _Soon._ He nearly scoffs. It’s apparent that there’s more, and he wants her to elaborate, but her lips press themselves together firmly. His wife turns her face sideways to kiss at his open palm and the Doctor aches with a longing he can hardly bear.

 

“Let’s finish this up, shall we? And then we’ll get the children into the Tardis,” she suggests, pulling away from him and back to the task of tending to the leftovers. She passes a dish over at him and meets his gaze, the same knowing gaze of years had and lived passing across her face. “It is where you’ve been sleeping, after all.”

 

The Doctor exhales shakily, a smile blooming from fondness in the absolute certainty being that River Song, his wife, always knows.

 

 

 

 

River sets down Jessie first and the Doctor follows with Art. The room the Tardis has set up is whimsical, the walls a pastel purple glistening with a faint shine, toys scattered near one corner, books lining another. The bunkbeds they have placed their children in are similar to the ones Amy and Rory had used in those very early days, in fact, if he’s pressed to check, he’s nearly positive they are the exact same model only shrunken to befit youngsters.

 

The wife is pulling him by his coattails and the Doctor allows it, letting himself be led back into the console room, nearly tripping over his feet in the process, but then River is there. Snickering against his ear, hands steadying at his back, hands curling around his shoulders. 

 

“Do you remember when you tried to kill me?” the Doctor asks with a grin once they reach the console. River, wandering around the other side, playfully coy. She appears to preen at the mere mention automatically, though.

 

“And to which time are you referring to, my love?”

 

“Why, the first, dear,” he responds, taking to moving opposite her, joining her in this dance she’s begun. If anything, just to get glimpses of her as she moves, so alive. Responding, finally. “Your first,” he adds, “to be precise.”

 

“ _Oh_ ,” River hums, obnoxiously pleased. “Kissed to death at first glance then shot at the altar.” She turns tail and hurries over towards her husband, pulling him closer by the lapels of his velvet coat. “You’re not so subtle kinks are showing, honey,” she teases, pressing onto her tiptoes so her nose brushes against his.

 

The Doctor feels the air rush from his lungs, his lips hovering over River’s, breaths mingling.

 

Voice rough but honey-deep, the Doctor responds, “I’m an open book, me.”

 

River shivers in his arms and throws her head back, cackling gleefully, her ringlets bouncing along with her laughter. She positively glows. “Now that’s a line for the history books, sweetie!”

 

The Doctor’s hand seeks out, brushing her golden curls over her shoulder, palm cupping her jaw intimately. “River,” he mutters softly, magnificently caught in this moment, this feeling.

 

Her amusement dies down at the longing she hears in his tone and her eyes meet his, sweet and warm, like the first glimpse of the sun over sullen, grey clouds. She leans into her husband, pressing her lips to his. The kiss is chaste but deep, the Doctor’s hands gently cupping either cheek, sighing into the kiss when they pull apart.

 

“So,” River whispers, slightly out of breath, “what was this point you were trying to make about murder?”

 

The Doctor cracks a wide grin, “Oh, you know. The obvious.”

 

“Being?” River grins dangerously, delicate fingers curling around the lapels of his jacket with purpose and _pulling_ , his body inclined to follow her eagerly.

 

“Vanity,” he answers. “I wondered since I was the first face that face saw if you found me as particularly dashing that day as you do now.”

 

“Idiot,” River huffs in a breathless laugh, tugging him out of the console room and in the direction of their bedroom.

**Author's Note:**

>  **AN #2:** There's been a ton of rewrites for this particular installment and a lot of indecision, thus it taking so damn long to actually be posted. I finally decided, as a fan of Who content, that I'm going to explore the things that I want to see in this fic because I personally don't want to skip the domestics. I don't want to skip the hardships and glaze over to a happily ever after just like that. This fanfiction, created as a whole, has always been _about_ the domesticity surrounding the Doctor and River's relationship within a "bigger on the inside" family dynamic. There has been fun and a deal of angst and foreshadowing in past parts of this series and I just wouldn't do it justice if I didn't explore those themes further, so this continuation of the series will hopefully be faithful to that. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with this story and adopting it into your heart. I appreciate it.


End file.
